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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23909203">Baby Boom</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanfictionvshomework/pseuds/fanfictionvshomework'>fanfictionvshomework</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Killing Eve (TV 2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/F, I'm sorry but I'm obsessed with Villanelle and babies, TRIGGER WARNING MENTION OF DOMESTIC ABUSE, Villanelle and baking are not a good combination, Villanelle is thinking, Villanelle's POV, also wtf they kissed, family life, love but not sex, mention of Eve - Freeform, set after s3 e3 so slight spoilers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 19:08:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,453</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23909203</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanfictionvshomework/pseuds/fanfictionvshomework</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Villanelle is exploring a different side of herself. But in chasing her family, what will she find?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova, Konstantin Vasiliev &amp; Villanelle | Oksana Astankova</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>58</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Maternal Desires</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Baby Boom?! Villanelle what is this?” Konstantin questioned, shaking his head. “It sounds like a mass shooting at an orphanage,” he remarked. But, Villanelle didn’t hear him as she was too busy skipping ahead, staring wide-eyed into the vivid shop window. Gazing back at her were little adorable baby shoes and cots and clothes and toys and little giraffes with big eyes and every shade of pink and blue under the sun. “Look at it!” she cried, grinning just like the babies in the shop, “It’s all so small and so soft.” Konstantin once again shook his head. What was she like? Just this morning she had butchered a father of two for the Twelve and now she’s cooing over toys and prams. Just as he was about to open his mouth, he felt a tug on his arm. Villanelle dragged him into the shop.  Softly, the entrance bell dinged, alerting the bored teenage store clerk to their arrival. “Hello and welcome to Baby Boom,” he droned, refusing Villanelle the eye contact she was searching for, “The home of all things baby and all things boom. Can I help you?” Brightly, Villanelle stepped towards the store assistant, intently pouring her eyes into his soul. “Where can I find your most expensive clothes?”</p><p>Konstantin wanted to shoot himself. He wanted to take a bayonet and protrude it into his heart. He wanted to find wall and bash his head against it. If he had to hear ‘Call Me Maybe’ again, he just might lose it. He had never previously shown his interest in this kind of fatherhood, and had no intention to start now. His frustration was completely lost on Villanelle. She was having a conversation with a mother to-be about the best baby foods. Magnificently, and unsurprisingly, she was holding her own. Konstantin himself was even convinced that she was a mother. How on earth is she able to act like that? Villanelle bid the lady farewell after promising to visit her antenatal yoga clinic. Held in her hands, Villanelle was softly grazing her fingers across the frills of a little tutu. Konstantin looked at her with utter disgust. “What are you doing to do with that?” he sneered, trying to keep himself from laughing in her face. Looking at him with her sad puppy eyes, she whispered “I want to buy it.” Villanelle’s maternal instincts had only been growing recently. Although she didn’t want to be a mother, she wanted to feel that tenderness, that kindness and compassion. She wanted Eve to hold her, to rock her to sleep, gently, as if she was a new-born, as if she really was loved…<br/>
Villanelle caught herself drifting into that dangerous emotional territory. Caring about people had done her life no good so far, so why should she start now? Carefully, she arranged her face to portray a bored, tired attitude. But Konstantin could see through those cracks. Konstantin knew what it was like to see a child who needs a maternal influence. He wrapped her arm around her shoulder, not giving a reason, but pulled her in, attempting a fatherly bear hug. “Get off!” Villanelle resisted, shrugging him off and striding towards the counter. Emotions and connections only made you suffer. They were an arrow, piercing through her every being and sense. Recently, it was becoming harder and harder to compose herself.  “I’d like to buy this please.” Villanelle stated to the other assistant who looked at her cheerfully. “Of course. May I ask who you're buying for?” the assistant asked. Konstantin glanced over at her, worried he’d see a deer trapped in headlights, but as always, he’d underestimated Villanelle’s ability to worm her way out of every difficult situation. Coolly, she smiled a soft, warming smile. “My darling sister is having her first-born, and me and my Daddy are just so excited, aren’t we?”. She looked expectantly at Konstantin. That irritating upper-class ‘holier-than-thou’ accent made him pause for a second, but then realisation came crashing down. “Erm… Yes…” he stammered, meeting Villanelle’s eye as a subtle cry for help. He could see the fire, the life in her eyes, her sadistic tendencies enjoying his suffering. As quickly as he noted the change, she was back to pretending. “We don’t know the gender yet, but I’m hoping she’ll have a little girl. I cannot wait to play with her and dress her up!” Once again, Konstantin glimpsed a truth in Villanelle’s world of deception.  She wanted to love and be loved. But there was no chance of it. Konstantin had tried to be that father in her life, but Villanelle was incapable of allowing other people into her life without turning their insides out and laughing as she stabbed them in the back.</p><p>“Cheerio!” she called out as she strutted out of the shop, the flamingo-pink tutu delicately wrapped in the brown paper bag. Konstantin followed her, striding quickly up with her pace. She looked back at him and giggled. “Come on old man,” she muttered, switching back to her harsh Russian accent. “How about some lunch?”</p><p>The two of them ended up in a little café, the kind with succulents on the tables and menus inscribed onto wooden plates. “This is nice” Villanelle said, looking around. “I feel like we haven’t spent much time together recently.” Konstantin sighed. He didn’t want to have to tell her the truth, about why he was in London, about his dealings with the accountant. But he also suspected something was going on with Villanelle. Her mood swings were getting faster and more violent recently, like a toddler’s tantrum. Villanelle, of course, knew why this was. Eve was alive. She didn’t know whether to curse her or stalk her and try and reciprocate that kiss. Of course, it wasn’t the ideal setting, a clunky London bus that smelled like alcohol and urine. It was barely even romantic. But Villanelle had allowed herself to feel that connection, that desire to be with Eve that she knew would drive her to madness if it remain untouched. Villanelle found herself in the real world, sitting opposite to Konstantin who brandished a look of concern upon his face. Looking sideways, she realised the waitress had come to take her order. Villanelle found herself unable to say even the simplest. The waitress was wearing a dainty top and she could see her navel piercing. But what struck her the most was her hair. It almost glided down, lustrous, filling every available space. It curled in all the right directions. Most of all, it was black, blacker than the rural sky she knew so well back in Russia. She had to resist the urge to jut her fingers forward and run them through her hair. ‘Wear it down’ she thought. </p><p>Back in the present she uttered, “Can I just get a coffee please?” Her daydream had been brought to a cruel and abrupt end.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Burnt Cakes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Villanelle is haunted by the idea of having a family. What will she discover when she is back home in Russia?</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The room smelt of clean vanilla, like spring. However, the atmosphere was very much the opposite. Villanelle was running around the kitchen with a ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’ tea towel strung across her shoulder. She was muttering to herself in a mixture of Russian, English, and Spanish and found the occasional expletive cutting through the room. Chasing away the beautiful sweet scent, a harsh burning got Villanelle’s attention. "Ah, shit!" she called out, sprinting towards the oven. She threw the door open and was greeted by a blackened sphere which smoldered gently. Villanelle reached her hands into the oven, the singeing flesh reminding her that oven gloves would probably be a good idea. By the time she’d removed the atrocity from the oven, the smoke alarm was blaring like an air raid siren. Villanelle looked from the recipe book, to the cake, back to the recipe book and sighed. "Why does everything I make look like shit?"</p><p>Surprisingly, Villanelle decided to clear up after herself. The cake was long gone, chucked out to the birds who were feasting on the crumbs. As she was thrusting bubbles around the bowl, she began to hum. At first, she was completely unaware of what she was doing, but then she caught herself. Villanelle couldn’t remember the words, but it didn’t matter. She knew that tune. It was a song her mother used to sing to her back home, when they were baking in the kitchen together. In fact, this whole situation reeked of domestic bliss. Villanelle had swapped the smell of freshly baked bread for vanilla, but she couldn’t hide the fact she’d enjoyed cooking. It made her softer on the inside, reminding her of a happy time. She enjoyed it.</p><p>That night, whilst lying in bed, Villanelle began to sing to herself again. She twirled her fingers in time, drifting from side to side. She closed her eyes. Picturing her childhood home was easy. She could place everything exactly. Her bed, the chairs, her mother’s washing line. She could remember her mother smelling of orchids and her singing voice like that of a hummingbird. Villanelle couldn’t help but recollect going to Church every Sunday, fidgeting next to her mother who  was able to calm her with a simple touch. She remembered playing out with other children in the street, kicking tin cans, playing games. A shudder went down her spine. Why was she being haunted by these memories? She’d spend her entire adult life running away from domesticity just to be drawn back into its warm appeal. She fell asleep, but not without a fight to suppress the one thing she wanted the most.</p><p>Whenever she wandered the streets of Barcelona, Villanelle found herself mindlessly gazing at families. She would imagine her and Eve walking down the street. Eve would curve her arm around Villanelle’s shoulder, holding her in close. She would whisper in her ear, tell her that everything would be okay. She’d sleep next to Villanelle at night, and whenever she woke up, Villanelle would be greeted by her face of concern. Eve would be proud of her, would sing her praises and cook her food and hold her hair back and play games with her. She couldn’t stop thinking about Eve, but it wasn’t about lusty sexual undertones anymore. When Eve had kissed her it just felt… wrong. She wasn’t in love with Eve anymore. Nevertheless, her obsession had yet to subside, so when Eve’s birthday came about, she knew that baking a cake wouldn’t cut it. She'd ordered the bus as part of her usual unaffected cynicism, but had found the attachment to Eve was peeking through once more.</p><p>Villanelle had thought Konstantin was joking when he talked about helping her find her family. Villanelle even thought she’d been joking. But when he handed her that brown envelope, she had to work to conceal her excitement. Villanelle had the chance of a real family. Granted, it was about twenty years too late, but it was better than nothing. Evidently, Villanelle was unsure of what she’d find, but had no qualms or fears. When she was given that address, those three lines of hope, nothing mattered anymore. She didn’t care about Eve or Konstantin or Dasha or becoming a Keeper. Killings stopped being fun and enjoyable and became a way to pass time until she could reconnect with her past. Her cool exterior was challenged by her constant dread. Villanelle had a niggling fear that she was incapable of family life. Every chance she’d ever had at building something with another person had come crashing down on her, all because of her own actions. She’d shot both Konstantin and Eve, and felt little regret, deserted her marriage just after the wedding, and had even driven Anna to suicide. Eve had called her a psychopath and she’d laughed at the time, but what if it were true? Villanelle hadn’t realised anything was wrong with her until people had started mentioning how sick and twisted she was. But, as always, curiosity got the better of her.</p><p>That was what Villanelle was mulling over, as she sat on a train that clearly outdated the Russian Revolution. Pungent smoke threatened to suffocate her. Her body rocked up and down, the wheels translating every rock and bump. The view out of the window was dismal at best. She’d quickly tired of the cattle and empty fields, tired of the occasional mounting with a sprinkle of snow. She’d closed her eyes, allowing the memories of her motherland to take over. It’d been years since she’d been surrounded by her language, and she revelled at not being a foreigner. Although, she couldn’t help but be glad she’d escaped this life. The women she shared the carriage with were clearly stuck in unhappy marriages and wore clothes that had been mended umpteen times. Vodka seemed to be everywhere, Villanelle presumed, because only alcohol could offer a temporary escape from this depressing world She stood out in her blue turtleneck, and she could see the feral children eyeing up her belongings. She was returning home, but it didn’t feel like it. She despised being a stranger I the once place she was supposed to fit in.</p><p>Villanelle stepped off the train, onto the quaint platform. She had arrived but had no idea what was about to greet her.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks for reading! I wasn't planning on doing multiple chapters, but I'm loving writing this different take. Honestly, Killing Eve is the only thing keeping me going right now :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Finding Family</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>She was five when her dad died. Old enough to remember her life before, but not old enough to understand that he was never coming back. She didn’t understand that she would never again feel his stubble on her cheek when he spun her around the room, would never again fall asleep in his tight embrace. The lullabies, hugs, kisses, affection would all stop. Up until that point, she’d had the idyllic family seen on the front of magazines. The perfect nuclear bundle – a happy working father, a housewife seemingly devoted to her children, a brother and a sister so tightly knit you’d think they were sewn together. It didn’t last. The drinking took over. Laughter was replaced with screams of anguish, from both Oksana and her mother. With that, Oksana cried herself to sleep, drowned in the belief that she was a bad daughter.</p><p>So Oksana ended up at the orphanage. She was seven, and still filled with her childish naivety. It became her new family. Scrappy boys with egos the size of planets but without the courage to back it up. Girls who clung to their toys like their lives depended on it. Children with bruises and scars like Oksana’s. Among this bunch of castaways, Oksana felt like she had found her people. The owner of the orphanage became her father. He patched up her scabbed knees with a kiss. She felt his stubble on her cheek and was transported back to a time of happiness and relief. But then the manager started to drink too. Funnily enough, Oksana was old enough now to realize the pattern. Whispers from the girls about his temper. More crying children. When she was summoned into her office, Oksana distanced herself from reality. She imagined herself in a world in which she had a mother that loved her, a father that didn’t hit. A world in which she could dress in elegant gowns and choose her life.</p><p>The orphanage dream came to an end as quickly as it had materialized. She found herself training to impress. Dasha worked her hard, but when she succeeded, she was rewarded. Oksana changed her name to Villanelle, curated an entire persona. She was no longer the scared girl; she was a beast. Dasha taught her everything she knew and Villanelle became an impeccable killer. Mission after mission, she proved her worth. She bathed in the praise, used it to rekindle her desire to live. She was thirteen when she came across her first hurdle. A slip of the hand had meant she’d been unable to dodge the incoming kick. Villanelle had been hurt, only a few bruises, and after all she was used to that, but she found herself embarrassed. Ashamed. She’d hung her head low when reporting to Dasha. Nevertheless, she knew that Dasha would understand. Mistakes are made by everyone, after all. Villanelle kept telling herself that as she washed the blood off her broken nose.</p><p>She was seventeen when she met Konstantin. Now she was confident, aware of her abilities. He took her in like a lost puppy, practically adopted her into his family. Their bond wasn’t that of an employer and a worker but resembled that father-daughter bond she was robbed of. They went out for dinner in beautiful restaurants, shared jokes, brought each other gifts. As Villanelle climbed the ranks of the Twelve, she found herself being respected for her trade. The Twelve had become her family. She was finally living the life she wanted, travelling to luxurious places, spending all her earnings on fashion. Villanelle was happy.</p><p>That was, of course, until she wasn’t. her blindness to the truth behind the Twelve came crashing down like a brick wall. Konstantin wasn’t her father; he didn’t care about her. He used her to climb up the rankings, to show off to his colleagues. The men were cruel, the women hated her. Killing, which had come so naturally to her, felt boring, monotonous. Still, she carried on. There was no way out.</p><p>But then she met Eve. At first, she couldn’t stand the women. She was nosy, irritating, and had a habit of appearing at the worst possible times. Villanelle enjoyed playing with her, flirting aimlessly. At first their game of cat and mouse was just that, but before she realized, Villanelle was falling. Hard. Her obsession with Eve seemed to complete her. The hunt for a normal domestic life felt like an extraordinarily strong pull. Obviously, Eve was busy working for the enemy, but Villanelle couldn’t stop herself. Her house, with all its niceties, felt like it could be her house. When they worked together on the Peel case, she felt that this could be a new beginning for the two of them. Obviously, this too came to an end. But through their desire to be together, both Eve and Villanelle found themselves together. Despite all the odds they kept finding each other. Buses, trains, even in Scotland. Villanelle could finally see her way out. And that way out looked very much like a woman named Eve.</p><p>Villanelle needed to recreate herself. She thought that final trip to return homed to her roots would act as closure. She thought meeting her abuser would allow her to move on. Evidently, that didn’t go to plan. Her anger got a hold of her and she, literally, burnt her bridges. Villanelle assumed that the guilt would dissolve, like it normally did. But it didn’t. Whenever she went to complete a job, she was taken back to the burning house. She saw her mother’s face. She saw her childhood, depressing as it was, in full colour for the final time. It was sort of like an epiphany. Villanelle wasn’t a killer. All her life, adults had taken advantage of her desire to be loved. They had molded her, used her emotions against her. She had been used like an animal. They had no respect for her. But one person did. Eve saw her as a person. Villanelle sought her out as she felt valued for the first time in her life.</p><p>So, Villanelle found herself with a way out. Her and Konstantin had said their final goodbye. Carolyn had given her that chance without actually realizing it. Eve seemed equally resigned, expressing her desire to give it all up. As they stood on that bridge, looking out upon the glistening London lights, Villanelle was forced to confront her role in Eve’s downfall. The two women had got extremely close over the past weeks and their relationship only seemed to be getting stronger. But in order to save Eve from going through the same mental roundabouts as herself, Villanelle had to create a barrier. They turned away from each other and started walking. Her breath hitched. Villanelle wasn’t sure she was strong enough to break away from Eve. Villanelle was still that tired five-year-old missing her father. She remembered something from a story he once read her, “In order to save those we love, we must sacrifice ourselves.”  Villanelle was okay with suffering from heartbreak if it meant Eve could live the life she deserved. Before she moved on, Villanelle wanted to see that curly black hair one last time. So, she glanced over her shoulder. She’d expected Eve t be far away by then. But, instead of a blank canvas, she was met with Eve’s dark eyes. The eyes that felt like home.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>haha sorry guys I was struggling with motivation for a bit but I'm back! That finale ignited something within me, so I definitely want to be writing more. Remember to follow my twitter @multiflodom and reach out to me on there if you have any ideas.</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you so much for reading! Feel free to give my twitter a follow @multiflodom . There will be more Killing Eve fics to come...</p></blockquote></div></div>
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